Taming Georgia E-Book

Ellie Wade

• Herausgeber: Ellie Wade, LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Georgia Wright is never in one place for too long. She’s constantly traveling the world in search of adventure, a new cause to support, or something to save.
She grew up living the American dream. She had a supportive family, love, and money enough to afford her any opportunity her heart desired.
Yet, despite everything she has, her heart aches for more—something constantly right out of her reach. In a life of perceived perfection, she struggles to breathe—forever chasing happiness.
A new adventure places her face to face with the beautiful blues she’s tried so hard to forget. The words that fell from his lips so long ago continue to haunt her shattered heart. Can she confront this piece of her past and finally let it go?
Wyatt Gates spends his days surrounded by dogs, rescuing those who can’t save themselves.
As a boy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, he’s been looked down on his entire life. It’s never bothered him though because he doesn’t care much for people anyway. He’d rather spend his time with animals. A dog’s love is unconditional. They’re honest and loyal, which is more than can be said for most humans.
Wyatt’s given his heart away only once and he’s always regretted it. He fell in love with someone that wasn’t capable of loving him back and has spent every day since trying to erase her from his memory.
Most days are void of thoughts of her and he can almost convince himself that he never really cared until the day she walks back into his life. Past feelings engulf him, putting him right back where he was years ago.
He tries everything to push her away, desperate to close this chapter of his life for good. Yet, there’s a quiet hope deep within that whispers for more.
Can he rise above his hurt and finally forgive her?
In a world where not everything is as it seems, is it possible that in the process of saving others, they just may save themselves?
A second chance romance full of self-discovery, forgiveness, and love.

Leseprobe

Taming Georgia

Ellie Wade

Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Wade

All rights reserved.

Visit my website at www.elliewade.com

Interior Designer: Under Cover Designs

Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1-944495-13-8

Contents

Also by Ellie Wade

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Dear Readers,

Acknowledgments

Other Titles by Ellie Wade

About the Author

The Flawed Heart Series

Finding London

Keeping London

Loving London

Eternally London

Taming Georgia

The Choices Series

A Beautiful Kind of Love

A Forever Kind of Love

A Grateful Kind of Love

Stand-alones

Fragment

Chasing Memories

Forever Baby

A Hundred Ways to Love

Boxed Sets

The Flawed Heart Series

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Jen Jones, you are such a beautiful person.

Thank you for making me feel like a superstar. As long as you continue to read my words, I’ll continue to write them. I love you, my friend—always.

Prologue

“True love is a concept only valid in storybooks. A boy will never save me. Only I can do that.”

—Georgia Wright

I’ve never believed in fairy tales. I’m not waiting for a prince to come sweep me off my feet. Sometimes, I wonder if true love—the kind that lasts a lifetime—is even real. Is it possible to love someone so much that their mere existence is enough to fill one’s soul until their lungs take their last breath? When my heart ceases to beat, will its last fatigued movement be bursting with unyielding adoration for the love of my life? Or will it just stop because it’s tired?

Happily ever after is a big commitment. Ever after—that’s like always. It’s huge. But is it attainable?

Most days, I think not.

And it’s not because I haven’t had a good example. My parents claim to have that kind of love. My mom is always boasting about being one of the lucky ones to have found her soul mate. There’s a part of me that’s not certain if she even knows what true love means. I know that they love each other, sure. Yet, sometimes, I wonder if it’s more accurate to say that they need each other.

My mom worships my dad. She’s his cheerleader, his stunning partner, always ready to look good on his arm. She’s there to encourage him and tell him how great he really is. He eats it up, too. I’m not saying that my dad isn’t great because he is. He works hard and has made a lot of money in the business world doing so. He deserves someone to love him the way my mom does.

In turn, he makes my mom feel beautiful, needed, special. As a handsome, wealthy man, he could’ve chosen anyone, but he wanted her. He decided that she was the woman who was worthy to be by his side, to raise his kids, to spend his money.

If his job, title, and money went away tomorrow, would their love remain as strong? I can’t say for sure, and that’s why I question it all. True love isn’t fostered by circumstance; it’s steadfast—impenetrable through any storm that life throws its way. It’s two people who love each other so deeply that the entire world could fade away, and as long as they had each other, they’d be okay. That’s a tall order to fill.

Even though it goes against my beliefs, sitting here now on this hard stool, I want to be proven wrong.

It’s insane that one boy can make me want to throw all of my principles out the window.

But he does.

My fingers tap the cool tabletop as my gaze darts toward the door while I wait for him. In my mind, I know that I’m too young to understand what true love feels like. The rational part of my seventeen-year-old brain knows this is just hormones. But the small sliver of my conscience that dares to listen to the tales of Cinderella and Snow White wants him to be my Prince Charming.

I’ve only been in contact with him in this classroom, and yet he holds a permanent residence in my nightly dreams.

I want him to be the one who would search the world until he found me to return my shoe. I want his love for me to be so incredibly powerful that with one kiss, he could wake me from the deepest sleep. I wish it so entirely, though I know it could never be.

Fairy tales aren’t real.

Our eyes meet, and I take a sharp breath, quickly pulling air into my lungs before holding it in. He shoots me his signature grin. Lips full, smile wide—the joy that radiates from his face causes me to feel sick with happiness.

Wyatt Gates strolls across the room toward me. His hair is a deep brown and short with a few random chunks styled up, framing his face. The contrast of his dark hair and bright blue eyes is a combination that drives me insane. Though it’s now November, he still holds on to his summer tan, making his eyes shine brighter.

At this moment, my heart breaks at the sight of him, as it does every day. How can someone so perfect exist if not for me? The thought is selfish, I know. But I don’t care. Wyatt makes me want to believe in true love.

Surely, attraction has something to do with my obsession with this boy. Would my heart pound such erratic beats if he wasn’t as beautiful as he was?

Maybe.

“Hey, Peaches,” he says, taking a seat on the stool beside me.

I’m going to faint.

“Are you all right?” he asks when I don’t respond.

Breathe, Georgia.

I take a breath. “Yeah. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Good. Did you finish the worksheet?”

“Yeah. Did you?” I grin, lifting an eyebrow.

“Not all of it.” His lips purse into a slight pout.

I let out a quiet chuckle as I pull the homework from last night out of my folder and place it on the table.

“You’d better hurry. The bell’s about to ring,” I tell Wyatt as I watch the door for Mr. Williamson.

Fourth-hour biology class is my favorite part of the day.

Wyatt is my favorite part of the day.

He finishes scribbling down the last answer as our teacher walks into the room at the sound of the bell.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Williamson says. “Please pass your homework up to the front.”

“Just in time,” I whisper to Wyatt as we hand our papers to the students sitting at the table in front of us.

“I wasn’t worried. I can always count on you to save me,” he says softly in my ear. His warm breath against my skin causes an epidemic of goose bumps to explode over my body.

Wyatt turns his attention to the front as Mr. Williamson starts his lecture, and I’m hoping he missed the reaction that his words had caused.

It’s a miracle that I retain enough from class to even complete my homework so that Wyatt can copy it daily, as I spend the entirety of fourth period stealing subtle glances of him. At least, I hope they aren’t obvious.

Truthfully, I’ve taken Biology before—in another city, at a different high school. This is one of the times in my life that the fact that we move a lot for my dad’s work has benefited me.

I doodle small daisies on my folder as Mr. Williamson talks about an upcoming project. I’m barely listening as I pretend each flower is a heart, one for each of Wyatt’s features that drives me crazy.

His hands. They’re tan and strong. The veins from his hands extend up the muscles of his arms, and that makes them irresistible to me somehow.

Since when do veins do it for me? I have issues.

He’s writing something in his notebook, now causing the firm muscles of his arms to flex. He must work out. I can’t imagine that forearm muscles are naturally so defined.

His voice breaks my stare.

My eyes meet his, and I blink. “What?” I ask.

Wyatt grins, and it’s magnificent. “I said, whatcha think? Want to be my partner?”

“What?” I say again. This time, the question comes out airier, as all the oxygen has left my lungs.

“For the project.” He eyes the information on the screen at the head of the classroom. “We need to pair up.”

“Oh.” I quickly glance at the project parameters on the screen. “Right, partners. Yes, sure.”

“We should plan to get together soon to outline our project. When are you free?” he asks.

“Anytime,” I answer.

“Do you have a few minutes today after school? We can meet in the library and just pound out the rough draft really quick.”

I swallow hard. My spit seems to stick in my throat. “That works.”

“Great. See ya then.” He taps my hand as he stands to leave.

The students file out of the classroom as I remain; my stare stays focused on my hand where Wyatt Gates touched me.

Because…O-M-G…he touched me.

After a quick stop to the girls’ restroom after last period to spritz on some body spray, check my hair, and touch up my lip gloss, I rush to the library and reserve a study room. Mrs. Jacoby, the librarian, has just unlocked the room when I feel Wyatt behind me.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she leaves us.

We sit on opposite sides of the table and pull out the project rubric and our notebooks, placing our backpacks on the empty chairs beside each of us.

“Are you going to the game tonight?” I ask him. I’ve never seen him attend a Friday night football game, which is odd because everyone else from our high school is there.

“No, I have to head to work in a bit. So, let’s make this quick, okay?”

His tone is kind, but the abruptness of his response throws me off.

I bow my head and focus on the paper from class. “Right. Quick. Sure.”

“Sorry, I just can’t be late.”

I lift my gaze to meet his. “It’s fine. I understand.”

I want to ask him where he works. Our high school is located in a very affluent area, and I don’t know many students my age who have jobs. But I don’t ask. He doesn’t seem like he’s up for small talk.

We get to work, outlining our presentation and splitting up who is going to research and talk about what.

“So, we have two weeks before our presentation?” His question is rhetorical because he continues, “We should probably meet up here again before we’re due to present, so we can go over everything and practice at least once. Does that sound good?”

I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

Wyatt stands from the table and shoves his work inside his backpack. “Thanks, Peaches. Sorry to study and run, but I gotta go.”

I quickly place my work in my bag and step out around the table toward the closed study room door. “No problem.”

Wyatt steps toward the door, and I hastily step back in an attempt to get out of his way. My foot gets caught on my chair leg, and I start to wobble. Wyatt places a hand on either side of my arm, stopping me from falling.

“Whoa. You okay there?” His beautiful blues peer down toward me.

“Yeah.” I point toward my feet. “I just tripped.”

He doesn’t loosen his grip on my arms. I tilt my chin down to stare at his hands on my arms and then lift my eyes back to his.

He still doesn’t let go.

The hue of his irises seems darker now, like the blue of the ocean before a storm. He leans in closer, his expression almost somber. The corners of his eyes pinch together as he takes me in. His focus lingers on my eyes before dropping to my mouth and then back up again.

I notice him swallow, the skin of his throat flexing with the motion. Suddenly, I’m very conscious of the heat in his stare. My mouth feels dry, and my tongue peeks out to moisten my lips as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth.

Everything is happening in slow motion, yet I feel each small movement with such an intensity that my entire body aches. It’s a delicious ache. It’s new—this sensation—and I like it.

His hands continue to hold my arms. Our breaths are deep. When he exhales, tingles race down my spine, and I shiver. He slowly leans in, his eyes never leaving mine—until they close.

I mirror his action by shutting mine as well. Then, I feel it—his lips on mine.

They’re soft, warm, and utterly intoxicating. A quiet moan escapes my throat without warning, but I’m too turned on to care.

Wyatt Gates is kissing me, and it’s everything I hoped it would be.

His tongue gently requests entry as it runs along my lips, and I open my mouth, inviting it in.

God, yes.

Wyatt deepens the kiss. His fingers are gripping the nape of my neck, threading into my hair, pulling my mouth into his. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close to me.

We kiss until my head is light and dizzy. I sigh when he pulls away, immediately missing the contact.

Wyatt leans his forehead against mine as we both catch our breaths.

“I have to go,” he says, this time with quiet remorse.

I know he wants to kiss me again just as much as I want him to.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He steps back, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Can I see you this weekend?”

My heart beats wildly within my chest. “I’d love that. Yes.”

“Do you know where Gallop Park is?”

I nod.

“I can meet you there at six. At the bench beneath the overpass by the river, at the far entrance. Do you know where that is?”

I know exactly where it is. My sister and I have ridden our bikes past that bench many times.

“I do,” I answer him.

“Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiles, and it sets my soul on fire.

“Six o’clock,” I say.

“Six o’clock.” He squeezes my hand before opening the study room door and walking out.

I let the door close behind him and lean against it.

I just kissed Wyatt Gates, and I want to do it again and again.

That was the best first kiss in the history of first kisses. I’m sure that I’m one of the last juniors in high school to experience a first kiss—another downfall of always moving around. I suppose I’ve never gotten close enough to someone to want them to kiss me. But now, I know it’s because I was waiting for Wyatt.

His lips were meant to be the first ones to kiss mine, and he was worth the wait.

A warm breeze rustles the multihued leaves of the trees. Some of them drop from the branches, swaying to the ground like yellow, red, and orange snowflakes. The sun sits low in the sky, its rays giving the leaves that remain in the trees a golden glow.

I’ve lived in a lot of places, and I can honestly say that autumn in Michigan is absolutely incredible. When I grow up, I want to live somewhere that has a fall season.

My toes tap anxiously against the ground as I pull out my cell phone to recheck the time.

Six thirty.

He’s late, and it’s making me nervous. He should be here.

He’ll be here.

Taking deep breaths, I attempt to bring myself to center, to calm my nerves. I take note of the beauty that surrounds me—the running river that splashes against the gray rocks, the color of the leaves of the grand oak trees, and the refreshing warmth of the wind that’s dancing halfway between summer and winter as it tickles my skin.

It’s a picturesque day, and it’s only going to get better when Wyatt gets here, which he will.

But he doesn’t.

I meant to ask him for his cell phone number at the library yesterday, but somewhere between the deafening echo of my heartbeats and the way in which his stare captured me so intensely, stealing my breath after our lips parted, I forgot. Surely, if I had it, I could text him, and all would be explained. He would tell me that he was on his way.

Of course he’s on his way.

I simply need to be patient and just stay right where I am, where he told me to be, until he comes.

I wait until the sun sets to the west, and darkness takes over. I remain until the wind turns cold without the sun’s warmth. I wait until I’m too chilly to wait any longer. And he still doesn’t come.

He’s not coming.

I can’t believe it.

After a Sunday that would never end, Monday has finally arrived. I’ve scanned the halls between each period, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but I don’t. I’m both relieved and nervous when I finally walk into Biology. I take a seat at our table and wait. The bell rings, and there’s still no sign of Wyatt.

Mr. Williamson begins his lecture, and my mind races, thinking of all of the things that could be wrong with Wyatt.

What if he’s hurt? What if he was in an accident?

God, I wish I could text him. Why didn’t we exchange numbers?

My brain is torturing me with the worst-possible scenarios when Wyatt finally arrives.

He’s okay.

He hands a late slip to Mr. Williamson and begins to walk toward the back of the room. The closer he gets to our table, the more anxious I am to talk to him, to find out if he’s okay. Only he continues past me without so much as a glance in my direction.

I turn around and watch as he sits on an empty stool next to Clarke, the goth loner who usually sits at the back table by himself.

When it’s clear that he’s not going to make eye contact with me, I turn my attention back to Mr. Williamson. I’m so confused. I think back to the kiss we shared—my first kiss. My body hums at the memory. I’m finding it hard to process this reality. The Wyatt whose lips caressed mine a couple of days ago doesn’t match up to the sullen boy seated at the table behind me.

After an hour of Mr. Williamson rambling about who knows what, the bell rings, and I jump up out of my seat. As quickly as I exit the class, Wyatt is faster. I almost have to run down the hall to catch up with him.

I grab his arm. “Wait. What’s going on?” I ask, desperation lining my voice.

Wyatt doesn’t say anything; he simply glares down at me with what seems like hatred in his eyes. I’m not used to seeing Wyatt look at me this way. In fact, I’ve never seen him appear so angry. He’s different. I release my grip and drop my arm to my side.

“What is it?” I plead, knowing that nothing good is going to come out of his mouth but wanting to know nonetheless.

I have to know.

Wyatt raises his hands in front of his chest in a stop motion. “Just go, Georgia.”

I’m thrown off by his dismissal and the way in which he addresses me. He’s never called me by my real name before.

I ignore his warning. “No.” The conviction in my voice surprises me. “Why didn’t you show on Saturday?”

He scans the hallway as other students hurriedly pass us on the way to their next classes. He shifts uneasily on his feet. I see the moment when he decides to talk. He stands taller, his body rigid as he peers down at me.

“I didn’t meet you because I didn’t want to,” he says between gritted teeth.

“Why?”

He throws his head back and takes a breath before returning his gaze toward me. “You’re a spoiled, rich brat, Georgia. Your life is a fucking joke. I would never waste my time with you. Now, stop following me.”

He turns on his heel and is gone before I can close my gaping mouth. Tears stream down my cheeks, soaking my shirt as they fall. But still, I stay, frozen in this space in time where my perfect dream has morphed into a nightmare. At some point in this haze, the bell for the next class rings, leaving me alone in this abandoned hallway.

My chest stings as my broken heart continues to beat. I thought I could’ve loved him. I thought maybe he could’ve loved me. Now, I know what a fool I was.

I drop my chin to my chest, unable to find the strength to hold it up anymore. My back shakes as I cry.

I knew better. This is my fault.

I let myself hope against my better judgment. I allowed my heart to dream of a Prince Charming with striking blues, who was made to love me unconditionally. I fell victim to the false fables of my childhood. But I had known all along that fairy tales weren’t real. Even if they were, why would the prince choose me?

Yet Wyatt Gates is no prince. He’s an asshole, one that I refuse to waste another second of my life on.

I pull in a deep breath and stand tall, wiping the tears from my face. No way in hell am I going to let a jerk like Wyatt break me. Maybe my first kiss didn’t turn out the way I’d thought it would, but it taught me a valuable lesson, one that I’ll never forget.

True love is a concept only valid in storybooks. A boy will never save me. Only I can do that.

When I get home from school, my mom lets my sister, London, and I know that my dad has acquired a new company in California, and unfortunately, we will be moving again. London is furious, as this is her senior year in high school, and she wanted her last year to be one without a relocation.

Had this news come two days ago, I would’ve been devastated, too. Yet my mom’s announcement only makes me smile. Six months was more than enough time here. Who needs autumn and multicolored leaves when one can have the beach and the ocean? After all, the leaves change colors and fall because they die. It’s pretty morbid when I stop to think about it.

Wyatt can have this stupid place surrounded by death. I’ll take sunny California. When I’m surfing in the blue ocean, I hope Wyatt knows that I won’t be thinking of him. In fact, I’m never going to think of him again.

1

Seven Years Later

“I might not be able to change the world, but I can make one person’s day a little brighter. There’s a euphoria that comes with that. It’s unlike anything else.”—Georgia Wright

I wake with a start. A small yelp escapes my lungs as I sit up in bed. I hold my hand to my chest, my breathing ragged.

It’s dark as I look around, trying to get a handle on my bearings.

Where am I?

One might think that this sensation of not knowing where I was would be an uncommon one, but they’d be incorrect. I actually wake quite regularly, not knowing where I am. That’s one of the downfalls of moving around as much as I do.

It takes me a minute to realize that I’m in Paige’s guest bedroom. I can breathe again. I allow my head to fall back to my pillow, but I don’t dare close my eyes. I can’t risk falling back into the nightmare I just awoke from.

I can still see the fear in Ye-jun’s face as he sprinted across the border between China and North Korea, fleeing the country he served. The moss-green military uniform he wore as he ran for his life said nothing of his loyalty, only of his desperation.

Some think that the soldiers in North Korea are treated well, seeing that they are serving their country, but they’re not. Their service isn’t a choice, and their quality of life is an afterthought. They are starving, just like the rest of their people.

Ye-jun’s life was so miserable that he was willing to risk it as he dashed into China with the guns of his brothers firing at his back.

The organization that I worked with tried to save him, but his injuries were too great. I held his hand as he took his last breath. The part that haunts me is that I got the feeling he was happy to die. His life on earth was so bad that his looming death was a relief.

How sad is that?

I can remember all of their faces—the ones we were able to save and the ones we weren’t. And the overwhelming similarity between them is that they were all willing to die to escape North Korea. Mothers risked their baby girls’ lives to escape. I can’t begin to imagine how bad life must be in order to sacrifice everything.

Honestly, the world is a messed up place. I’ve fed starving children. I’ve held people while they died from AIDS. I’ve tied myself to a hundred-year-old tree in the rainforest of the Amazon in an attempt to stop it from being chopped down. I’ve aided in rebuilding schools that were demolished from a hurricane. I’ve delivered clean water to people who acted as if it was the most amazing gift they’ve ever received. I’ve spent every free moment of my adult life trying to make the world better because I feel I have to.

I was born into money. I was given a trust fund amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars simply because I existed. I had done nothing to earn it. Truthfully, part of me doesn’t even want it. My guilt overwhelms me.

I’ve always had all that I needed. So, I choose to spend my money traveling to places where I can help people in need. Giving myself in this way alleviates some of my guilt but not all of it. There is so much more to be done.

I should say that I chose—past tense—to spend my money on important travesties taking place. At the present time, I no longer have access to my trust fund. My parents hate that I travel and put myself in dangerous situations. So, when I came back from China a couple of weeks ago to surprise my sister, London, for her birthday, they seized their opportunity to cut me off, so I couldn’t leave again.

My dad still deposits a monthly allowance into my bank account so that I can afford my living expenses—not quite enough to travel the world, but more than enough to live comfortably. The concept of being cut off doesn’t mean the same to me as it would to others—yet another privilege that brings me shame.

I suppose I don’t blame my parents for wanting me to stay in the same country as them. If I had a daughter, I’m sure I’d feel the same way. I’d want to know that she was safe.

My sister’s best friend, Paige, offered me her guest bedroom until I figure out where I’m going next. I accepted her offer immediately. I love my parents, but I love them more when I’m not living with them. I’m sure I could’ve stayed with London as well. Yet she and her husband, Loïc, are still newlyweds, and they’re trying to conceive a baby. I didn’t want to cramp their style.

I roll out of bed and put my running gear on, making sure to wear my fleece-lined leggings, as it snowed last night. When I step out onto Paige’s front porch, my face is assaulted with a bitter wind. The sun is just starting to peek up over the eastern sky, and it’s freezing.

I’m not a fan of the cold, but then again, I’m not a fan of watching my mom and her acroyoga coach bending their bodies into weird positions in the middle of the living room as I’m trying to watch reality TV. Nothing ruins a good episode of Property Brothers like seeing my mom’s ass in the air.

Yes, Paige’s place in Michigan, cold and all, is better than living with my parents.

As I jog down the sidewalks of Ann Arbor, certain buildings and places bring back memories. London went to college in this town, and I visited her several times. Plus, once upon a time, I lived here with my family for a few months. There aren’t many places I haven’t lived.

Despite the cold, the fresh snowfall is stunning. A blanket of white covers everything, creating a clean canvas to start the day. With each crunch of snow beneath my feet, I pull the brisk air into my lungs. The icy burn feels oddly pleasant and invigorating.

I turn the corner onto Main Street and see a homeless man huddled with his dog against a building. The two of them are wrapped in a tattered fleece blanket, and my heart sinks.

“Come on, Georgia,” my mom says from the sidewalk.

I hop down from the car and shut the door, skipping over to meet her.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get my seat belt undone,” I tell her.

“It’s okay. We don’t want to be late for our appointment. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a closer parking spot, so we’re going to have to walk for a few minutes,” she says.

I love spa days with my mom. She usually takes both London and me, but today, it’s just me. We started a new school last week, and London made a friend. She has a playdate with her today. I was a little jealous when she told me that they were going to Chuck E. Cheese’s. Mommy never lets us go to Chuck E. Cheese’s. She says that the food is garbage, the games are germy, and the prizes are crap.

I don’t know if that’s true since I’ve never been, but it sure looks awesome on the TV commercials. But I stopped feeling jealous when Mommy told me that we were going to have a spa day, just the two of us. Mommy said we were getting our hair done, a manicure, and a pedicure. She even said that I could get designs on my nails if I wanted.

Mommy gets some other stuff done, too. But she says I have to be grown up for that stuff.

Sometimes, the salons have this yummy lemon water that they give me, and sometimes, they have cucumber water. I really hope they have the lemon today. I think the cucumber water tastes like grass.

I walk fast next to Mom as she pulls my hand. Her heels click against the pavement, and it sounds like small drums.

Sitting up ahead on the sidewalk is a man. His beard is long, and his clothes are dirty. He has a bucket in front of him. When we pass him, I pull my hand from my mom’s grasp and turn to face him.

“Hi,” I tell him. “I’m Georgia.”

“Hi, Georgia. I’m Stan,” he says.

He sounds nice. He seems like he’s younger than my dad, but when I really look at his eyes, they look older, like my grandpa’s.

I feel my mom pull my arm.

“Let’s go, Georgia.”

I look down in his bucket and see that there’s some change. There are a couple of pennies and a quarter.

“Mommy, can I have some money?” I ask as she continues to pull me away from Stan. “Mom, stop,” I tell her.

Doesn’t she see that Stan needs money?

“Let’s go now,” she says in her mad-mommy voice.

As Mommy pulls me away, I look back at Stan, and he smiles and waves at me. I don’t know why, but I start to cry.

“Mommy, he doesn’t have any money,” I tell her through my sobs. Maybe she doesn’t know. “He might be hungry. We need to give him some money.”

“We don’t have time for this, Georgia. We’re going to be late. It’s not polite to make Gretchen wait,” she snaps at me.

“But it won’t take long,” I plead.

“I don’t have extra cash! I need it for Gretchen’s tip. You stop acting like this right now, or I’m not bringing you next time.”

Mommy never gets mad at me, so the anger in her voice makes me stop questioning her. When we get to the salon, the receptionist tells us that we’re a little early for our appointment and that we can have some cucumber water while we wait.

Our spa date isn’t as fun as it usually is. I don’t talk to Mommy, and she doesn’t talk to me. I keep thinking about Stan and wondering if his tummy is hurting. Sometimes, when I don’t eat, I get a tummy ache.

When all of Mommy’s procedures are finished, she pulls out her wallet to pay Gretchen. She has a big wad of bills in her hand, and she only gives Gretchen two of the bills. The rest go back in her purse.

I feel like I hate my mom. I know I really don’t and that I’m just mad. It’d be impossible for me to really hate her. Yet, right now, I do. She lied to me. I think Stan knew she was lying, too. I wonder how that made him feel. I hope he’s not sad.

Maybe now that she knows she has enough money, we can give him some on the way back.

“Mom,” I say as we walk back to the car, “can we stop by and give Stan—”

She cuts me off, “Stop. Not another word about the bum, Georgia.”

“But we have extra money.”

She stops walking and turns to face me. “Listen.” Her voice is softer now, and I’m happy she isn’t mad. “There are tons of homeless people in the world. I know you want to help them. I do, too. But we can’t. If we give all of our money to the homeless people, then we won’t be able to pay for our house, and we’ll be living on the street. Don’t you see that if you help everyone, you won’t have anything left for yourself?”

“I know, Mom. But I don’t want to help everyone. I just want to help Stan.”

“Did you listen to what I said? We can’t help everyone, Georgia. It’s just the way it is.”

“But—” I start to protest.

“No more. I’m serious,” she says sternly before smiling. “Now, where would you like to eat?”

I shake the memory from my head and stop running. Looking up and down the street, I see most places are still closed, but I notice a gas station open a block down.

I run to it.

The selection is pretty good for a gas station. I’m assuming this one is frequented by drunk college kids coming home from parties at all hours of the night.

“Can I help you find anything?” the clerk asks me as he stocks the shelves with canned goods.

“Do you guys carry dog food?”

“Yeah, two aisles over.” He points in front of him.

“Great. Do you have an ATM?”

“Yep, back by the restrooms.” He sticks up his thumb and swings it behind him.

“Awesome. Thank you.”